Benoît Pioulard

Ragged Tint

Benoît Pioulard


such habit pains the lungs & it chokes the pen
great circle route destroyed all my rounds again
shared palms upon the sill rousing dust in light
flared pace in empty words may delay foresight

o ragged wind
o hallowed tint

oh it takes a lot, so i'll give more than i've got